


Grief

by notthekindwithhalos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, sweet sweet angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:36:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthekindwithhalos/pseuds/notthekindwithhalos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again I started a part 2 buuuut this is me, so expect it sometime next century.<br/>And again, I wrote this whilst it was still relevant ahah.</p></blockquote>





	Grief

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me? ...This phone call, it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they- leave a note?”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

The words had been echoing through John’s head ever since he had finally returned to 221B. He could hear Mrs Hudson bustling around in the kitchen; the scrape of chairs, the boiling of the kettle, and the chink of china, but it all seemed so distant and far away. The entire room was draped in a haze of grief, muted and isolated, the empty silence leaving a vacuous hole in the room. The chaos surrounding him only made the once cosy and comfortable room seem larger and emptier. There was the violin resting in _his_ chair, the test tubes and flasks on the table, even those godforsaken bullet holes in the wall they’d been meaning to fix for ages, all evidence of _him_. All the little details in the room of disruption all evidence of vivacity, all evidence of the unpredictable motions of the man who filled the room with constant movement and sound and life.

John became aware of a plate of food, and a cup of tea being placed besides him, and a voice droned on at his side as he tried to focus: “...not expecting you to want to clear all this out anytime soon, so you just wait until you’re feeling ready... stay here as long as you like, understand? You’re always welcome... just going to be downstairs...” then the voice was gone, and the room was silent again.

The outside darkened, and the sky bled red and orange, before vanishing into the dark embrace of night over London, pierced by the luminescent glow of streetlights as John sat, locked in his grief. He felt anger bubbling up inside at the audacity of the world, to move on and continue as if it hadn’t just crashed and burned.  With one soundless gasp he turned and punched at the wall, lashing out at the unfairness of everything. Why did _he_ have to die?

It wasn’t until there was blood trickling down his knuckles, and speckling the new dent in the wall that he suddenly became overwhelmed by exhaustion, so abrupt he collapsed to the ground where he stood, apathetic to his surroundings and enveloped in misery.

A few hours later John awoke, confused, with a pain in his neck, and a throbbing in his hands that he couldn’t place. Stumbling into the kitchen, he went through the morning rites of putting the kettle on, getting the teacups and sugar out, and hunting down the last clean teaspoon so wrapped up in the normalcy of the routine he didn’t at first notice the oppressive silence. Something wasn’t right. John turned around, quickly scanning the empty room. Panic filled his lungs, making it hard to breathe, and he stumbled blindly upstairs, tearing open the door at the top of the landing only to be confronted with an empty room.“Sherlock? Fuck, Sherlock, where are...” Realisation was like a slap in the face, and he froze as the memory came rushing back.

_Goodbye, John._

No, that couldn’t be right. Sherlock was the best, most intelligent man John knew. He couldn’t be gone, it was a trick; there was no way he would have... It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be, it was a joke and any moment now he would leap out from behind the wardrobe and Mycroft, or Lestrade, or...

There was a sharp knock from the door, and Mrs Hudson’s voice called up, “Dr Watson? There are some people from the police here to see you. I think they rang the doorbell, but it must be playing up again, I must see to getting it fixed, are you in there, Dr Watson?”

John shouted a reply and slowly dragged himself to the door, his leg stiff as he felt the old limp coming back. He was confronted by Lestrade and Donovan, and he fought the urge to slam the door in their faces. Lestrade coughed and broke the silence with a rushed speech.

“Look, I understand you’re probably not going to want to do this, but we need a statement from you, Chief Superintendant’s orders, if you can come down to the station.” He held up his hands in a gesture of peace “There’s no rush: we know what you must be going through. It might do you some good to get out, though.” Lestrade broke off, and just as the silence was beginning to feel uncomfortable John moved out of the doorway and limped towards the sofa, feeling everyone’s eyes on him as he struggled to navigate through the room with Lestrade and Donovan silently following.

 As he sat down he saw Lestrade make as if to move the violin from the chair, “NO!” he shouted instinctively, before a wave of embarrassment overcame him, “sorry, that’s his chair, I just...”

Lestrade nodded understandingly and moved. “We also came to apologise for everything we did. I know it was wrong to doubt him, and I’m sure he had his reasons for whatever happened, but he was a good man at heart, and the damned best consulting detective the world ever saw.”

John flinched at the use of past tense, so final and abrupt, but acknowledged the kind sentiments with a silent nod. Donovan opened her mouth, trying to form words before finally, with the utmost effort, muttered “Look, I’m sorry too, John. I know I never went easy on him, and I regret saying half the stuff I did, but I’m sure he did what he thought was best, even if he wasn’t always honest about it.”

Something inside John snapped at the accusation, filling him with blinding hot rage. “Look, I don’t want your bloody sympathy or apologies, okay?” he yelled “They’re not going to bring him back. I don’t even know why you bothered to come here!” As quickly as it had arrived, the tension dissipated, and he was left fumbling for apologies.

Lestrade cut in, “It’s fine, John, we understand how close you two were, I know this may sound insincere given the circumstances, but we are sorry. He was an important part of the force, even if officially he was never on it, and if you need us... well you should know he wasn’t your only friend; and you weren’t his, either. Now what the hell have you done to your hand?”

“I... I- thank you”, John was touched by the sincerity of the words, and whilst it did nothing to abate the wrenching sorrow inside, he did feel a little less alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Again I started a part 2 buuuut this is me, so expect it sometime next century.  
> And again, I wrote this whilst it was still relevant ahah.


End file.
